


Ensign Barton's First Christmas

by AdamantSteve



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Christmas, Fusion, Gen, M/M, Star Trek AU, Voyager AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 01:29:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13136307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: Clint and Coulson are sent out on a mission, but can Clint get them home in time for Christmas? And what is Christmas, anyway?





	Ensign Barton's First Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ralkana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/gifts).



> For my dear Ralkana, and for all my ClintCoulson friends who delight me every day - thank you all for your love and support, and indulgence of my love of fluff :)
> 
> This is a story set in the Star Trek universe, with MCU characters set in a similar situation to that of Star Trek Voyager.
> 
> Previous to this story, a Starfleet vessel and a small group of outlaw space pirate types (think Firefly) both wind up getting sucked through a wormhole together to the furthest reaches of space. They then team up as one crew on a Starfleet vessel before spending the next few decades trying to get back home. In this case, the Avengers of the team (Clint, Natasha, Tony, Thor and Bruce (Steve is still out there, frozen in time (maybe to be found on a future adventure!))) were in the ragtag team of misfits that joined the SHIELD team (Fury, Phil, Maria, Melinda May, FitzSimmons etc) on the Starfleet Vessel: the USS Shield. 
> 
> This story is set a year or so after they got tossed out into space together, so they all work as a single crew now, with some members still a little more formal than others. 
> 
> I have a feeling there may be a similar set up to a Clint/Coulson fic but I don’t know it, and I don’t remember ever reading it (though that’s not to say I never have, as I have a terrible memory when it comes to fic). If someone lets me know what it is I can add a link here - I don’t want anyone to think I am plagiarising though - any similarities (if indeed this fic exists) are coincidental! The one person I would ask is the person the fic is for :/ There’s a great fic by Raiining with our favorite guys in Starfleet though… http://archiveofourown.org/works/454973/chapters/781543

 

Sometimes, in the middle of a crazy mission where nothing seems to want to go right, Clint wishes he would get assigned something boring, where there’s less chance of getting attacked by weird little creatures or held for ransom by a space gang.

 

Right now, he’s regretting every one of those wishes.

 

He and Commander Coulson have only been on this shuttlecraft for two days, but it feels like forever. Clint was actually excited when he got assigned to spend a couple of days on a data collection mission with Coulson, hoping that the enforced cohabitation might give him some insight into the inscrutable man’s mind. Instead they’ve both had nothing to do other than look at streams upon streams of tedious data, all of which says nothing - the anomaly they came out here to look at seems to have disappeared, and now they’re just waiting for it to show up again.

 

Even Coulson, the most patient man Clint thinks he’s ever met - the man who endured Clint’s unruly behavior when their crews were first merged before turning around and giving him a commendation - is getting impatient.

 

He watches as Coulson walks from the control panels at the head of the ship, past Clint where he’s been lounging with his PADD, to the back of the ship where he looks out at the stars, before repeating the circuit all over again, oblivious to Clint’s scrutiny.

 

“Everything ok, sir?”

 

Coulson abruptly stops his pacing and blinks Clint’s way. “Oh, everything’s fine. Still no sign of the anomaly, so we'll have to keep checking for another day or so before heading back. Though if it shows up again soon we could be back on the Shield by tonight.”

 

“Somethin’ on your mind? Uh, if you don’t mind me asking.”

 

Coulson glances at the just-checked console and then sits down across from Clint, defeated. “It’s silly,” he shakes his head at himself. “On Earth, it’s 24th December - the day before Christmas.” He pauses and looks at Clint. “Did you ever celebrate Christmas as a kid?”

 

Clint snorts, shaking his head. “Nah, the Cardassian orphanage didn’t go in much for Terran traditions. We celebrated a couple Bajoran things, but mostly as a fuck you to the people in charge. Then on the Swordsman we barely even used a calendar, Terran or otherwise, so.”

 

Phil huffs a laugh, smiling fondly at Clint. “Where I grew up - Wisconsin,” he clarifies, as if Clint doesn’t already know how Coulson grew up with snow and seasons and dogs and a real family. “My parents would make a huge feast of a meal, and the whole family would come home and we’d eat til we could barely move - seems a little decadent in retrospect, but I suppose that’s Christmas. When I was a kid, the part I cared about was presents - I got my first toy phaser when I was six.”

 

Clint grins, because he can so imagine a tiny Coulson running around with a serious face, pointing a toy phaser at people.

 

“As I got older,” Coulson continues, “I appreciated that it was the one day, even as my siblings started growing up and moving away, having kids of their own, that we all came together as a family for that meal, no matter what. Even when I went to the Academy I would come home, and it really made me appreciate what home meant. What family meant.”

 

“It sounds nice, boss,” Clint says softly, sorry that Coulson doesn’t get to do that anymore, can’t even send a subspace communication back home - not from out here in the middle of nowhere.

 

Coulson takes a breath. “So now,” he continues, “I still like to mark the occasion, even if it’s only raising a glass of synthehol to the stars and eating a replicated mince pie - or whatever sweet thing Bruce has knocked up that week.” He chuckles at himself and straightens up. “Which is why I’m keen to finish this mission and get back, to my single-serving Christmas. Now I’ve said it out loud it sounds a little ridiculous.”

 

“It’s not ridiculous,” Clint says, fiercer than he intends to. “It’s nice.” He stops himself from saying _I’m sorry you can’t be with your family_ , though he feels it, and he feels like Coulson knows he’s thinking it.

 

“Anyway, that’s why I’m being impatient, waiting for that damn anomaly to show up again so we can record our data and head back.”

 

Clint thinks for a moment before springing up to work the control panel, fingers flying across the flat surface.

 

“Clint?”

 

“I don’t know if this’ll work, but maybe we’ll get you home for Christmas after all.” He winks at Coulson, who shortly joins him at the console to work it through Clint's new plan together.

 

-

 

Some risky maneuvers through a small asteroid field, Coulson threatening to lose even more hair, and some fresh data later, they’re finally back in the shuttle bay, Coulson marching off to the bridge to tell Captain Fury all about their findings while Clint heads off to his quarters to freshen up. Clint’s last minute change of mission plan will need a full written up report (as Coulson reminded him whilst they were flying by the seat of their pants through a field of space rocks), so he’d better get started before he forgets too many salient details.

 

He goes to the mess hall instead. Bruce is quietly working on the ship’s evening meal, stirring a huge bowl of something that looks like oatmeal, no doubt to be turned into something a little more exciting further down the line. He looks up when Clint enters, and smiles at the unexpected visit. “Back so soon?” he asks.

 

“Oh, you know me, always like to do things the insanely risky but slightly quicker way.”

 

“I’ll bet Coulson enjoyed that.”

 

Clint snorts. “You know it. Listen, I have a favor to ask, and… it’s kind of a big one. But! I can make it worth your while.” He holds up a PADD, already loaded with a list of Earth Christmas customs and a few pictures. He’s not sure what they’ll do for a Turkey, but if anyone can work it out, it’s Bruce. Besides, he has a few replicator credits stashed away - with Bruce’s help, and maybe a few other people’s donated credits, they can work something out.

 

Bruce looks intrigued. “Go on…”

 

-

 

“So, that’s why I need your replicator credits,” finishes Clint, using his entire force of will to keep from withering under Lieutenant May’s steely gaze. He even turns on his puppy dog eyes for good measure.

 

May rolls her eyes, and Clint grins.

 

-

 

He goes to Fitz and Simmons before the three of them head to Stark, working as always in his workshop down in the bowels of the Shield. He looks at them suspiciously, crossing his arms as they approach, but the earnest pleading of his two favorite nerds soon wears him down. Not only do they get a few dozen saved replicator credits, but he also agrees to work on some decorations, ‘if he has time’.

 

-

 

Nat is annoyed that Clint didn’t come to her first; he supposes that would have made sense, after all, she could have used her empathic powers to persuade people to hand over everything they had with no convincing at all. “I don’t really think that’s in the spirit of Christmas,” Clint tells her, and she shrugs in agreement. “Although… how do you feel about talking to Captain Fury?”

 

-

 

Thor was a long shot, but once Clint has explained his plan, he slaps Clint on the back and tells him he has the perfect thing. Clint’s slightly scared as Thor leads him to a remote area of the ship, where he proudly presents - “Is that a still? Are you making _moonshine_?”

 

“And beer!” Thor exclaims with a grin, moving a dusty tarp to reveal yet more illicit barrels.

 

-

 

“Barton? Is everything ok?” Coulson asks when Clint shows up at his door the following afternoon, shrugging on his uniform jacket.

 

“It’s all good, just ah…” All the planning he’s put into this and Clint didn’t actually think of what to say now. “Can you come with me?”

 

“Of course. Where?”

 

“Just um,” Clint glances down the corridor. “Captain Fury wanted to see you?”

 

Coulson asks about a million questions on the short walk to the Captain’s Quarters, which Clint inexpertly deflects, which just raises even more questions. “Just trust me,” Clint tells him eventually, which surprisingly seems to work.

 

There’s a wreath made of twisted metal and pieces of greenery hanging by the door. “What is this, Clint?” Coulson asks, though he doesn’t seem angry, he sounds soft, pleased.

 

Clint’s about to say something when the door slides open, and Fury’s quarters are revealed. The few times Clint has seen them they’ve been quite bare, but now… soft 20th Century music fills the air, someone crooning about sleigh bells, whatever those are. A huge table sits in the centre of the room, covered in pots and pans filled with all sorts of food. There’s a tapped barrel in one corner, and a huge jug of what Clint supposes is Thor’s moonshine on top of what is usually a console panel, and for some reason there’s what looks like a fir tree made of more scraps of metal in the corner, upon which Simmons and Maria are hanging small sugar cookies decorated in red and green.

 

Everyone looks up as Clint and Coulson enter, calling out variations on ‘Happy Christmas’, which Coulson barely has time to react to before Fury steps out of his sleeping quarters wearing a red and white Christmas hat. “Cheese,” he says, and Coulson laughs, bright and high.

 

“You did all this for me?” he says softly, almost not a question, but a statement. “Clint-“

 

Clint doesn’t have time to react to Coulson calling him by his first name, because Bruce is ever so delicately tapping a glass with a fork to get everyone’s attention. They’re all here - everyone he asked, and Clint starts to feel a little of what he guesses is the family thing Coulson talked about.

 

“Dinner is served,” says Bruce, nodding to Thor to remove lids as he explains what each thing is - everyone taking their seats as he does so. He apologizes a few times about not being able to get anything very close to cranberries, and how he used up most of everyone’s donated replicator credits on the turkey so they will have to do without roast potatoes and instead will be having roast Axanarian root vegetables and other such substitutes, but Coulson shakes his head at all of these caveats and disclaimers.

 

“It’s perfect,” he promises. “Thank you,” he says to everyone, but he’s looking at Clint.

 

-

 

The food is delicious, though the Brussels sprouts Bruce insists are an Earth favorite taste horrendous to everyone, and even Coulson seems to hate them, seemingly eating half a dozen only out of politeness. He forgoes the beer and the moonshine for a single glass of replicated red wine with his meal, but it still gives his cheeks a rosy glow which Clint finds delightful.

 

Everyone chats about this and that, their own yearly traditions that they’d be doing back home if they weren’t stuck in deep space like they are.

 

“Thank you, Clint,” says Coulson, turning in his seat to speak to him. Clint smiles at Coulson using his name again, and Coulson takes a breath as though to say something else, but stops himself, instead repeating, “Thank you.”

 

“S’nothing, boss… _Phil_?” Clint adds, hopefully.

 

Coulson frowns, and Clint worries for a moment that he’s massively overstepped his boundaries. “It isn’t nothing, Clint. This is kind, and thoughtful, and smart,” he nods towards the rest of the group, all happily talking - letting some steam off for once. “But I shouldn’t be surprised at that,” he continues, “since those are all fine qualities possessed by you. And yes, of course you can call me Phil when we’re off duty. I’d like that very much.”

 

Clint’s not sure what to do next, so picks up his beer and clinks it with the nearly-empty wine glass Coulson - Phil - is holding.

 

“Happy Christmas,” says Clint.

 

“Happy Christmas,” says Phil.

 

It’s the first Christmas Clint’s ever had, but he’s willing to bet it won’t be his last.

 


End file.
